


A Rowdy Brotzman Thanksgiving

by ShadowManShenanigans



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Family Drama, Thanksgiving Dinner, lots of pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:25:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowManShenanigans/pseuds/ShadowManShenanigans
Summary: The Rowdy 3 at a Brotzman family Thanksgiving. What could go wrong?





	A Rowdy Brotzman Thanksgiving

“You sure she said she was coming today?”

Mrs. Brotzman glanced from the window she was peering out of to her husband, where he was seated in his favorite reclining chair. “She said Thursday, for dinner.”

“She does know it’s Thanksgiving, right?”

“I’m sure she does,” said Mrs. Brotzman, but her words quavered. It had been years since their daughter had reached out to them, long after the whole debacle with Todd’s band falling apart. They had tried so hard to be a part of their children’s lives, to support them as best they could, but there was only so much they could do. “Oh, honey, we should have tried harder.”

“We did what we could,” said Mr. Brotzman, voice gruff. “We did all that we could.”

A car engine rumbled in the distance, growling louder and louder as a large van prowled down the street toward them. Mrs. Brotzman gasped, taking in the graffitied exterior and the duct tape precariously holding on the front bumper, and her husband joined her at the window. “Should I call the police?”

Mr. Brotzman harrumphed as the van idled at the foot of their driveway for a long moment, before swerving sharply into the drive. “Could be they’re lost.”

“Oh, my God,” whispered Mrs. Brotzman, her hand rising to cover her mouth. The passenger door of the van creaked open and a young woman with dark hair stepped down. “ _Amanda_.”

The young woman looked up and stared at the window where they stood with kohl-lined eyes, heavy black boots planted on the gravel – Mrs. Brotzman wasn’t sure if she could see into the window or not, but either way, the eye contact was strangely disturbing.

“Holy hell,” muttered Mr. Brotzman, as four other individuals clambered out of the van, each one looking wilder than the last. A skinny guy with a ladybug shirt, a big man with an enormous knitted sweater with a reindeer on it – which looked oddly fashionable with the tattered black jeans and the soft grey knit hat – followed closely by a man with longer dark hair and a black circle inked around one eye. The last to exit the van was the driver: a tall, slender man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a shock of white hair rising from his head. Amanda turned to say something to him, inaudible from the distance, and his glasses glinted in the fading afternoon light as he glanced toward the house.

“She _did_ say some friends would be joining her,” said Mrs. Brotzman faintly, and Mr. Brotzman squared his shoulders before moving to the door to unlock it.

“Let’s welcome them in, shall we?” he said, and she nodded, lifting her chin. If these people were important to Amanda, they would do their best to welcome them into their home.

 

–

 

“Best behavior, okay, guys?” said Amanda. Her fingers were picking absently at the hem of her jacket, and the Rowdies were as jittery with excess energy as ever – although she could see even Vogel was doing his best to keep the raging manic energy to minimal foot-tapping. Martin gave a short nod and glanced at the house again as the other Rowdies mumbled their agreement, and Amanda followed his look to see a familiar shape standing in the open doorway, framed by soft lighting leaking from the hall. “Um.”

“We got you, Drummer Girl,” said Martin, low and soft, and Amanda swallowed hard before setting her jaw and nodding. It had been her suggestion to call her parents, just to check in that they were okay, and it had been her bewildered shock that had convinced her that agreeing to Thanksgiving dinner at her parents’ house was a good idea.

“I’ve got the pie!” said Vogel, and Amanda winced as the two pies in his hands – one on each hand, splayed fingers supporting the laden tins like a waiter in a fancy restaurant – tipped and nearly spilled.

“Thanks, Vogel,” said Amanda. “Thanks, Gripps,” she added, when she saw him lifting the laden basket of cornbread muffins. She had been so proud of her boys when they had banded together to make the muffins – the pies were very much storebought – and the sweet smell of their baking had been exquisite, despite the borrowed kitchen and the flour everywhere and Martin’s distress over using a recipe from memory. Amanda had taste-tested the muffins to ease his increasingly anxious mutterings around the cooling things, and proclaimed them perfect – better than her mom’s, even, she had assured him – and that had been that. There were also far too many for the amount of people at the dinner, and the basket was an enormous wicker monstrosity of red and green that had previously housed a multitude of Christmas-themed oddities – including the sweater that Gripps was happily wearing.

“We good?” said Cross. He had the cans of cranberry sauce – the jellied kind, with added sugar, because it was Amanda’s favorite, despite how good the homemade kind was – and she could tell by the swing of his hands that he itched to pitch the cans and watch them splatter. Maybe after they could make another trip to the grocery store – the first had been so fun! – and find some good things to make explode.

“We good,” said Amanda, and marched toward the house, her rowdy boys trailing after her. They had promised their best behavior, and she had promised hers, so with any luck the evening would go smoothly.

Looking at Martin as he flicked his spent cigarette into the grass and compressed the spark out with his boot, and the way he calmly redirected Vogel with a touch to the elbow from accidentally depositing both pies into the grass as well, Amanda could only hope and pray for a Thanksgiving miracle that her parents’ house didn’t end up a disaster.

Whether it would be through her own doing or the Rowdies, she wasn’t sure – but the sense of foreboding that had dragged at her hopeful smile all day was beginning to weigh on her.

 

–

 

“It’s so very nice to meet you all,” said Mrs. Brotzman when her husband ushered their guests into the dining room, just offset from the kitchen. She had added two folding chairs to the round table, having underestimated the number of friends their daughter would be bringing, and she had scrounged up matching silverware and dishes to squeeze onto the already laden table, as well. A folding table had been set up in the corner, with barely any space between it and the closest chair, with a turkey, stuffing, and vegetables laid out on the family’s heirloom china platters. Amanda hadn’t seen her mother take those out of the cupboard since Christmas the year after she had graduated from high school, back before she’d been sick, before Todd’s miraculous “cure.” Before–

“Nice to make your acquaintance,” said Martin, a bit more of a Southern drawl than usual to his words, and Amanda blinked as she was yanked back to the present. “Thank you for having us.”

“Yeah, thanks,” said Amanda, when the other three Rowdies merely nodded with enthusiasm. While the corn muffins had been baking and the boys had been corralled by Martin to keep them from breaking apart the unoccupied house they had ‘borrowed’ in order to use a working oven, Amanda had stressed to her friends how important it was to not frighten her parents. She might have gone a little overboard with her warnings on what not to do – “no smashing, no hitting, no dropping things, no howling – sorry, boys – no yelling…” – the list had gone on and on. Apparently the boys had taken it as the compressed wisdom of limiting how often they opened their mouths at all.

It felt wrong.

Sitting at the table with four subdued Rowdies, and her two parents who had identical fixed smiles on their faces, Amanda had never felt more out of place. There were the six people she loved most in the world, and all of them were… like they were half there. Paper cutouts in a three dimensional diorama – out of place.

Mr. Brotzman lifted the turkey platter from the folding table next to him and offering it to Gripps, who was seated on his right. Amanda was absurdly grateful that it was Gripps and not Vogel – who was on Gripps’ right, and was watching with undivided attention as his brother carefully transferred strips of turkey from the platter to his plate with the provided fork. Gripps even held the platter while Vogel dished out his own portion of turkey, which saved them a mess. This method worked for the duration of the plattered food shuffle – at least until the cranberry sauce bowl, which took a bit of convincing from Cross for Vogel to release it – until everyone’s plates were filled.

 “Shall we say grace?” said Mrs. Brotzman, as Vogel reached for his fork – he froze like a deer in headlights, and yanked his hand back to hide on his lap.

 “What’s grace?” whispered Vogel to Gripps.

 “You say thanks for something before you eat,” Gripps whispered back, and Amanda saw her mother hide a smile.

 “We usually say a short prayer, then go around the table and have everyone say something that they’re grateful for,” said Mr. Brotzman gently, and Vogel nodded, then frowned when Mr. Brotzman offered Gripps his hand, and Mrs. Brotzman took her husband’s other hand and offered her own free one to Cross, on her left, who took it with an enthusiastic grin. Gripps took Vogel’s left hand and Amanda took his right, with her right in Martin’s left and his right in Cross’s, to make the circle complete.

 “Why don’t you start, dear?” said Mrs. Brotzman.

Mr. Brotzman glanced at his daughter, who smiled tightly at him, and nodded. “God is great, God is good. Let us thank him for our food - and the people we eat it with.” He glanced at his wife, who smiled encouragingly. “This year I am thankful for the blessings we have received, and that my daughter is here today.”

Amanda felt her face start to burn, and she stretched a leg under the table to nudge Gripps’ leg. He jumped in his seat and glanced at her before saying, “I’m thankful for sleep!”

 “My turn. My turn?” said Vogel, directing the question at Martin, who nodded, and then to Amanda, who grinned at him. His head whipped back around to face the Brotzmans and he smiled wide. “I’m thankful for finding my family again! And baseball bats, and the boss, and the van being with us again, and not being in Wendamoor”

Mr. and Mrs. Brotzman looked a little startled at his words, but smiled when he looked at them expectantly. “That’s very nice, Vogel, thank you,” said Mrs. Brotzman. “Honey?”

Amanda forced her face out of the grimace that had twisted it – most of what he had said would hopefully just sound like nonsense to her parents, but it was more than they needed to know – and tried to smile. Martin squeezed her hand gently, and she smiled briefly at him before turning to face her parents. “I’m thankful for my family.”

Maybe not all of it – she still didn’t know what her feelings were about Todd, even after all this time – but the people at this table? She loved all of them so much.

 “I’m thankful for Amanda bringing us together,” said Martin quietly, and she blinked up at him. He didn’t say _again_ , didn’t say _we needed you_ _and you came_ , but she could see it in his eyes, feel it in the warmth of his hand on her own.

 “Thankful for so much,” said Cross, and Amanda’s gaze flicked to his oddly serious face. “A lot of shit happened this year and it sucked, but a lotta good happened, too.” He looked at her and smiled, and she managed a grin in return. A lot _had_ happened, and they were all still reeling from it, if she was being honest.

 “I’m thankful for this meal, and for the people who have come together to share it,” said Mrs. Brotzman. “I’m grateful for my husband, for my children, and for the new faces gracing out home.”

 “Amen,” said Mr. Brotzman, echoed discordantly by his wife and daughter, and a beat later by the Rowdies. “Good friends, good meat; good God, let’s eat!” He released hands with Mrs. Brtozman and Gripps, picked up his fork and speared a roasted carrot. Everyone followed his cue to let go of their neighbors’ hands and begin eating, and for a few minutes there were only the sounds of a meal being enjoyed.

 “How did you all meet?”

Amanda glanced up from her plate and found her parents watching her with patient expressions, and caught Martin’s startled gaze. Of course that hadn’t been one of the possible questions they had rehearsed. “Um.”

She couldn’t exactly say that the Rowdies had shown up at her house, she had thrown a brick at them, and they had smashed a window when they’d returned the brick with a note. Not to mention following – and subsequently rescuing – her to the grocery store.

 “We heard her drums,” said Martin, startling her – and by the way his fingers curled reflexively around his knife, himself, as well. “Couldn’t get her out of our heads.”

 “Knew she was special right away!” said Vogel, and crammed a loaded spoonful of gravy-soaked stuffing into his mouth when Martin glanced his way.

 “Are you still playing, Amanda?” said Mrs. Brotzman.

 “Yeah,” said Amanda. “Kind of. Not recently.” They’d been kind of busy, rescuing each other and escaping Blackwing, and then _evading_ Blackwing, for her to even check back at her house. She didn’t even know if she’d remembered to close the garage properly, before Todd had dragged her to his apartment, “for her own safety.” Haha, look how _that_ turned out, Todd. “We’ve been traveling.”

 “Any destinations in particular?” said Mr. Brotzman.

 “Just all over,” said Amanda quickly. The Rowdies were thankfully occupied by the food on their plates – despite not needing to eat a lot, since their energy-devouring ways gave them all the _whatever_ it was they needed to survive, they were capable of consuming food, and were happy enough to do it if they liked it. And she had yet to find a food the Rowdies _didn’t_ like – they weren’t the pickiest of eaters. “Are the muffins all right? We weren’t sure about the recipe, we kinda winged it.”

 “They’re lovely,” said Mrs. Brotzman. “They taste just like my grandmother’s did. What recipe did you use?”

 “Family secret,” said Martin, and Amanda rested a hand on his knee when she saw the tension in his shoulders. He relaxed a bit, the white-knuckled grip on his fork and knife easing, but she could already see the evening deteriorating as the Rowdies control began to waver. They weren’t built for this continued, muted facade, that smothering of everything that made them who they were.

She looked at her father, saw the tightness at his eyes that showed he was worried, saw the way he glanced to his wife; she saw the way her mother looked at the leather-clad Rowdies and didn't see them as the family Amanda had come to know and love.

There was no way to explain to them how these four people had rolled into her life with a rumbling van and saved her from a lifetime of misery trapped, alone, in the house she couldn't afford – now that she thought about it, without Todd's payments, it likely had been repossessed, anyway. She mourned the loss of her drum kit for a brief moment, but smiled on instinct when Vogel couldn't help catapulting a spoon laden with cranberry sauce at Cross.

The projectile missed, and struck the yellow-painted wall, sliding down in a pinkish smear that was sure to stain. Mrs. Brotzman sucked in a breath, Martin tensed, and Amanda's grin slid from her face.

This had been a mistake.

Amanda stood up, pushing out of her chair, and saw Vogel glance at her with guilt written clear on his face. He had promised to behave, and he had been good for so long.

She hated it.

That wasn't who the Rowdies _were_. They weren't meant to sit and be cordial at the dining room table, with the family's heirloom china sending a sweet siren song to be smashed. They weren't meant to play nice, to fit _in_. This wasn't right. This wasn't them.

"I'm sorry," said Amanda, and she was saying it to her parents, and she was saying it to the Rowdies. Oh, how she had hurt them today, without even trying, by thinking that she could change them to fit some ideal type who her parents would approve of. "I shouldn't have asked you all to do this."

 

–

 

"Honey, what's wrong?" said Mrs. Brotzman, glancing only once more at the spreading stain on her wall and turning her gaze to her daughter. Dinner had been going well, she had thought – everyone seemed to be enjoying the food, and the corn muffins they had brought had been quite frankly divine – until food had begun flying and her daughter had stood up, and the atmosphere had become incredibly tense. The four men seemed to be watching her for some kind of signal, their hands stilling by their plates, and Amanda… she looked like she was about to cry.

Mrs. Brotzman hadn't hugged her daughter in years, not since one such embrace had brought on a pararibulitis attack. It was her worst fear to bring such pain to her daughter again, and in that moment it seemed that she had done so again without even trying.

 

–

 

"This was a mistake," said Amanda. "This was such a mistake, I'm so sorry, you guys."

"Now, hold on a moment, Manda," said Mr. Brotzman. He had put down his knife and fork, aligned properly beside his plate, and his voice was calm. He did not rise from his seat, as if he knew that doing so would escalate whatever tension was sparking through the room, and Mrs. Brotzman's fingers tightened on her cloth napkin, hidden under the table on her lap. "What's brought all this on?"

"This was a mistake," said Amanda again, and turned to meet the gaze of the white-haired man, the one she had introduced as Martin. "We should go."

He rose without a word, and the other three did as well, glancing at Amanda before genteelly pushing their chairs back in.  “Thank you for the meal,” said Martin.

 “Honey, talk to me,” said Mrs. Brotzman. “What was a mistake?”

 “Coming here!” said Amanda. She had taken off her fingerless gloves when they had sat down to eat – she pulled the gloves from her jacket pockets and tugged them back on, flexing her fingers and relishing the feel of the soft leather. Gripps had given her those gloves, had taken them from a bitchy woman who had been pushing around kids on Halloween. “We shouldn’t have come.”

 “Honey–” began Mr. Brotzman, but Amanda kicked her chair back, absently aware of the wooden back slamming into the wall. She had forgotten how small the house was – how empty it looked, even crammed as they were in the dining room.

 “We shouldn’t have come,” said Amanda. “This isn’t who I am anymore.” She hadn’t been, for a long time – seeing her parents the way they were, and knowing what she did about how Todd’s actions had impacted them, she couldn’t look at them without thinking of how badly Todd had ruined all their lives. Their parents drained of money they couldn’t afford to spare but had anyway, since they loved their children and wanted the best for them; and Amanda… well. Todd had lied to her for years. Had been supportive and understanding and everything she had needed him to be, and it had all been a lie. “I can’t do this.”

Her hand struck the gravy boat and it spilled, spreading across the pale tablecloth and–

_–running over her hand, burning hot, her flesh cracking and peeling from the boiling heat, and she screamed as it dripped down her leg and caught fire, spreading to her torso and hair, a steady pressure on her chest and something hard against her back and_ –

Amanda blinked, finding herself leaning with her back to the wall and strong hands resting on her shoulders, fading wisps of blue energy drifting from her to Martin. The other Rowdies were crowded beside him, eyes sharp and alert, and over their shoulders Amanda could see her parents rising to their feet. She looked up at Martin, at the calm ocean of his blue eyes, and pushed his hands away with a swallowed sob as she gave in to the overwhelming urge to _flee_.

She ran.

 

–

 

“This was stupid,” said Amanda, wiping her nose on her sleeve and making a face at the smear she had left, glancing up at the four Rowdies standing around her, where she sat on the lawn beside the inert van. “I’m so sorry, guys. I never should’ve asked you to come.”

 “We go where you go,” said Cross firmly.

 “Yeah, boss, we’ll follow you anywhere!” said Vogel, plopping onto the grass in a splayed mess of limbs and draping an arm around her shoulders – a familiar, comforting presence that was no pressure, only straight-up love. There was no games with the Rowdies, not like that – they loved and they cared and they didn’t jerk around the people important to them.

 “So stupid,” she whispered, rocking forward and wrapping her arms around her knees, shoulders hunched under Vogel’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

 “Say the word and we’re gone,” said Martin. He crouched down on his haunches in front of her, looking at her over his glasses. “That’s a given, Drummer Girl. But these two… they love you.”

 “And I love them,” she said. “But it’s hard! Todd hurt them so much and hurt me so much and I know all this stuff that I didn’t want to know and I _hate_ it.” She was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks and smearing her makeup, and she couldn’t be bothered to wipe them away. “I was such a burden to them and I never did anything to pay them back!”

 “You’re not a burden,” said Gripps.

 “No way, man!” said Vogel. “Boss is the best there is!” He hugged her to him, throwing his other arm around her, and she couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at her mouth when he smooshed his face into her neck. “We love you, Boss, and they love you, too,” he added, his voice muffled by her hair. “And they make gooooood turkey.”

 “We didn’t bring the pie,” mourned Gripps, looking back to the house. “Should I go get it?”

 “Nah,” said Amanda, and wriggled enough of an arm free of Vogel’s embrace to wipe her nose again. She felt silly, having a tantrum in the grass on the lawn of her parents house, with four Rowdies enveloping her with warmth and love and support. They were just _there_. “Can I just– say goodbye? Then can we go?”

 “Sure thing, Drummer Girl,” said Martin. He stood, letting out a low whistle, and Vogel untangled himself from Amanda’s hair and gave her a hand up before joining Cross and Gripps by the van. “Want us to come with?”

 “I got this,” said Amanda. “Thanks.” She looked at them, her four Rowdies, and she managed a real smile this time, tears drying on her cheeks and makeup smudged. “Really, I mean it. Thank you.” She turned and marched back up to the doorway and knocked – someone had closed the door between her and the Rowdies’ rushed exit – and took a deep breath. “I can do this,” she muttered. “This is fine.”

Her mother opened the door, concern written plainly on her face, and Amanda felt the tears welling up in her eyes again. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

 “Can we start over?” said Amanda, and stopped. Those weren’t the exact words she had been thinking of saying, but as soon as they passed her lips, she knew they were the right ones. “I,” she tried, and faltered. “Everything’s different now. I don’t even know how to explain it–”

 “Oh, honey,” said Mrs. Brotzman, and pulled her in for a hug. Amanda stiffened, remembering the last embrace from her mother, but nothing happened – or rather, nothing _bad_ , or pararibulitis-related happened. Amanda melted into her mother’s embrace and hugged her back, accepting the hug for what it was – forgiveness, love, understanding. “We love you, Amanda, and we _always_ will. Your friends may be a little… outside the norm, but they’re important to you, so we’ll love them, too. We _love_ you, Amanda.”

 “I love you, too,” she whispered, squeezing her mother tightly for a moment before letting go, stepping back. “I don’t think traditional dinners are really our thing,” she admitted. “I didn’t think– I just wanted us to do something together, and it was Thanksgiving, and it seemed so perfect until we got here and–”

 “It’s okay, honey,” said Mr. Brotzman, stepping out of the dining room and into the hall to join them at the door. “I may not understand what exactly is going on, but the way I see it, those boys helped with your… with your attack tonight.” He looked uncomfortable talking about it – he always had, but he, without fail, had stood by her and Todd when they had been sick. “If you need to go, that’s all right. We can pack some food up for you to take with you–”

 “No,” said Amanda, a wild grin spreading across her face, “wait. Can we– try something new?”

 

–

 

They moved the round table out onto the back lawn. Cross and Gripps wanted to lift it with everything on top and see how much lasted until they got outside, but Amanda saw her mother’s face pale at the suggestion, and she quickly convinced them that it would be more fun to move everything off first so they could _run_ with the table. She sent Vogel with them, tasked with holding doors open – with _no_ kicking them down, Vogel! – and drafted Martin into duty with her mother, dumping all the food in the main dishes out of the fancy dishes and into plastic mixing bowls. Not terribly fancy, but less likely to break. Amongst the lot of them, they got all the food outside, cramming the folding card table next to the round table and setting out paper plates and plastic utensils – the decorated 4th of July kind, leftovers from a party Amanda could somewhat remember from her college years, come home for break.

Some of the food inevitably was launched across the table, spoons and forks used interchangeably as catapults and defensive weapons, and occasionally used for their primary purpose. Vogel had cranberry sauce in his hair, Gripps had potatoes on the shoulder of his sweater – Cross had paid dearly for that projectile; Gripps had stolen a buttered corn muffin right out of his hands – and even Mr. Brotzman had a smear of gravy on the cuff of his shirt, having been mostly successful in dodging Vogel’s playful throw.

 “I’m so glad you could come, Amanda,” said Mrs. Brotzman as Cross leapt from his chair to avoid Vogel’s flying tackle, both Rowdies racing away from the table and overflowing with laughter as the shorter Rowdy chased his brother. “It’s so good to see you, and doing so well!”

Amanda risked a glance at her mother. “You think?” she said softly.

 “You’re looking so much better than I’ve seen you in a long, long time,” said Mrs. Brotzman. “These boys make you happy, don’t they?” Amanda nodded – something was stuck in her throat, it must be, because she couldn’t find the words to say at that moment. “They take care of you – I can see it. They’re a little rough around the edges–” case in point, as Martin jumped from his seat to barrel into Cross in retaliation for the theft of his plate, “–but a blind man could see that they love you dearly.”

 “We’re good to each other,” said Amanda, finally swallowing past the lump in her throat. It tasted like tears and not the mouthful of stuffing she had bitten, and she hoped she wasn’t about to start crying again. There had been more than enough tears for the day.

 “You’re good _for_ each other,” said Mrs. Brotzman, and patted Amanda’s shoulder gently – always wary of setting off an attack. Amanda still hated that – the careful handling, like she might break like the china plate that hadn’t survived the transfer from the table to the kitchen – but she could see all the years weighing on her mother, all those years of a mother watching her daughter suffer and being unable to rescue her.

Amanda had the Rowdies, and the Rowdies had her – they could rescue each other. Amanda didn’t _need_ saving, and neither did they. “I think so, too,” she said. She winced when one of the plastic bowls was spun like a frisbee, and laughed when Vogel leapt into the air to clutch it to his chest, inevitably wearing the salad that had been previously resting peacefully there. “Sorry about the mess.”

 “It’s no bother at all, dear,” said Mrs. Brotzman, eyeing her husband as he surreptitiously lined up a shot of stuffing and gravy at Vogel’s back – he flicked the spoon and the shot connected, and Mrs. Brotzman’s eyebrows rose to her hairline as her husband unabashedly smiled at the outraged Rowdy and pointed an accusing finger at Martin, who had paused to light a cigarette, and Martin yelped as he was tackled by Vogel, the unlit cigarette flying from his mouth as the two hit the grass and began to wrestle. “I think we all needed this, even with the mess. _Especially_ with the mess.”

Amanda looked at her parents, at the relaxed way they sat and surveyed the slow destruction of the pristine grass on the lawn and the spread of foodstuffs from the table to the Rowdies to the grass. “Love you, mom,” she said.

 “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

Amanda reached over and took her mother’s hand in her own, saw the way Mrs. Brotzman’s eyes lit up and the small smile that lit her face from the inside out, and over her shoulder she saw Martin redirect Vogel’s energetic flailing toward Gripps as the white-haired Rowdy caught her eye. He smiled, his cigarette reclaimed and clamped between his teeth, and Amanda smiled back.

It was a good Thanksgiving, after all.

 “So, honey,” said Mr. Brotzman, as the Rowdies began dusting themselves off and bumping shoulders, clapping backs as they reassured one another than no one was grievously injured – only a few scrapes and bruises, nothing major, and nothing the washing machine wouldn’t remove from their clothes. “What exactly was that blue magical stuff these boys were doing earlier?”

Amanda glanced at the Rowdies, eyes wide, and painted her most winning smile on her face, raising her hands and wiggling her fingers in a conjurer-like fashion as she said, “ _Magic_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u to @Takada_Saiko for the A+ fic suggestion  
> This is definitely not what u asked for but it was Fun  
> (There were gonna be cinnamon apples but then they all went outside to roll in the grass i'm sorry)
> 
> shoutouts to @fromexilewithlove & @setmeatopthepyre
> 
>  
> 
> ~~What are the Brotzman's given names??? Who are they?????~~
> 
>  
> 
> this work was Not Edited.


End file.
